“A HUG?” ANITA repeated, as if her brain was a faulty computer trying to process information in a language it had never learned. “You … you would do that?”
“Yes.” The word dribbled from Rima’s mouth, pathetic and small. “You’re my mother.”
“Oh honey.” Anita’s legs suddenly unhinged. At first, Rima thought her mother might be falling, but then she saw Anita awkwardly catch herself with the nearly empty wine bottle, the glass letting out a dull chuk as Anita knelt. “Honey,” Anita said, boozily, “you don’t know how mush I’ve wanted that. But what could I do? The stain on your soul was shhho black, I wuss always afraid you’d drag me down.”
Of all the things her mother could have said, that actually stroked a bright flare of anger. Keep it together; only got one shot at this, or it’s over. “That’s past now, Mom,” she said, not bothering to try to control the shudder in her voice. Anita was so wasted, she would hear it as fear—and oh God, yes, Rima was afraid.
“Girl lies,” the priestess said.
So did a lot of adults, mainly to themselves. With an effort, Rima kept that thought from reaching her face. Her eyes never wandered from her mother. “I know how hard it’s been,” she said to Anita. “And I’ve been so afraid.” It helped that this was true. I don’t want to die down here. Please, God, don’t let me die here. She had never been more frightened of her mother than at this very instant. But then again, this wasn’t her mother, not really. This was the mother her nightmare had made. To hell with McDermott and his stories; this is my life; I’m real. I’ve written my own mistakes, my private nightmares. What power she had was in her. If this came out of her mind, then the way out must already be inside her, too. She had to remember that. “Mom, if you’re going to do this, I think you better.”
The knife was already moving, and too late, Rima wondered if her mother understood. The blade flashed down, and then Anita was sawing at the rope tethering Rima’s right hand. At that, her heart tried to fail. I’m left-handed. It knows that’s my weaker hand. So she would have to be very quick. She watched the knife eating the rope; the tension around her wrist eased, and a second later, her hand was free.
A sudden, fierce urgency flared to snatch at her mother, made a grab, do something, and Rima had to work hard to muscle back the impulse to knot her fist in Anita’s hair. Wait, be patient. Don’t spook her, because you won’t get another chance. Wait for it.
As if sensing some danger, her mother rocked back on her heels. The muzzy look on her face sharpened a moment, and the knife she still clutched twitched, the point moving to hover over Rima’s throat.
“Careful of the knife.” Rima licked her lips. “You don’t want to cut yourself.”
For a shuddering moment, nothing happened. The bright spark that was the point of the knife ticked back and forth ever so slightly with each beat of Anita’s heart. Rima said nothing, held her breath. Then she heard the knife clatter to the rock, and Anita was leaning forward, practically falling on top of her—and Rima thought, One chance.
“Oh, my poor baby, come here,” Anita sighed, snaking her arms around Rima’s neck and shoulders. “Come to Momma, baby.”
“Oh, Mom.” Her voice broke as she carefully wound her arm around Anita’s thin shoulders. “I forgive you,” she whispered—and then she clamped down and felt for the center of her mother with all her might.
In the next instant, when Anita began to scream—when it was much too late—Rima understood: she had just made the worst and last mistake of her life.
Too late, Rima understood everything.